The Dirty Truth
by rightersblock
Summary: For February CBPC. Also technically a companion piece to Enough. Booth's POV. BB


Disclaimer: Don't own anything

Author's Note: I know I'm supposed to be working on White Noise, and I promise that I will, but I was just messing around on my computer tonight, enjoying a rare moment of downtime, and when I wasn't paying attention my fingers wrote this. I know it probably doesn't sound like Booth, but I decided to make it from his POV anyway. And, yes, it is horribly abstract, my writing prof would have a kitten if she read it, lol. Anyway, let me know what you think. It's technically a companion piece to Enough, so if you feel like it, you can read that, though you don't necessarily need to. For Feb. CBC. Anyway, thanks for reading!

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I think the dirty truth is we don't really want to be separated from our drama. Sure we say we do—we even tell ourselves that we wish we were "normal" and that we would like our lives better if they were simple. But we don't really mean it. Deep down, we don't want to be separated from our brokenness, our insecurities, our pain, our fears, our hidden scars, our still sore wounds. We protect our deformities, guard them with irrational abandon. And, despite what we say, we don't really want someone to come into our life and fix them. What we really desire is someone who can come into our life and accept the shit that we come with. Someone who will look at all the dysfunction and say "this is a piece of who you are so it's beautiful." To ignore or get past our drama is to deny our hard fought uniqueness. We want to be loved for all the drama, all the trauma, the psycho-ex's, the broken homes, the lies, the denials, the nervous ticks, the secret obsessions, the pet peeves, the stupid annoyances, the irrational desires, the commitment issues, the self esteem problems, the insecurities, the lacks of true self acceptance. We want someone who likes us for the things that set us apart, not for the things that make us the same. We want someone who can hurt us, not out of some masochistic desire to be destroyed, but out of an intense and driving desire to be known on that level; to find someone who can utterly destroy us, but who doesn't. We search for that person, the one who we can open up to, and who, as a result, will be able to render us a quivering mass of shredded pain, but who will chose not to, someone who we could tear down completely, even though we never would. Someone cheering on the sidelines. Someone waiting for us backstage. A simple kiss goodnight. Someone holding our hand when Thanksgiving is quickly turning to Hell because Mom's drunk again. The person who makes us forget, but never makes us change. The person who gets it. The person who picks up our baggage and proudly carries it into their parent's house. The person who has their own dysfunction. The person who you love because they have their drama. The person who isn't just "normal."

The thing is we all have skeletons in our closet. We've all got that relative we hide, or that addiction that we don't talk about. Something hidden under the bed, tucked under the couch cushion, taped on the back of the toilet, buried in a shoebox in the attic, wedged between the DVD's in the back of the drawer. And it's like our scavenger hunt. We bring a new person into our lives, show them the house, and then sit and wait. We watch them. Will they find it? Where will they look first? And when they come across it, the intensity rises. What will the reaction be? How long until I hear the door slam? Curious eyes meeting ours, the simple acceptance, and we know it's over. They won. They have our heart.

I knew all of this before I ever met Temperance Brennan. It's a gentle game that we play our entire lives. When she entered my game, I accepted her as a new player, though perhaps not an immediate threat. It was subtle dance, the easy ebb and flow of conversation, slow realizations, steady pacing. Nothing rushed, nothing forced, just take it as it comes. She began to breach the fortress without my ever realizing it. Before long, I was absorbed in the game, focused on her as the new adversary. I was searching for the hidden bruises, looking for the meaning in between the carefully crafted lines. The fervor was dizzying. It was my addiction, her science, and neither of us truly noticed our advancements. We were testing each other, steadily giving and taking, revealing new aspects of ourselves. Look, I have a scar here…it's from when my brother left. See here? This is because I'm separated from my son. This is from past relationships, see how it's still bleeding? This is from watching men die because of me…it's never really healed. And so we kept playing. Waiting. Who would be the first to flinch?

The fact is we never really grow up. In reality, we're all still just little kids. Relationships are like riding your bike at full speed toward an oncoming car, playing chicken. We wait to see if the person we are flying toward will bail, will slam on their breaks and swerve to miss us. Or maybe we'll ditch first, fly off the bike, land in the ditch, sinking into the mud while our heart thuds at the thought of what almost happened. Maybe no one will flinch and we'll just collide, head on. And can we survive it? Maybe we'll just be flattened and left on the road. Maybe we'll go through the windshield and flatten the driver. However, we all still play, because we're waiting for that one time, that one occurrence where, if we're lucky, and we time our jump just right, we'll land on the hood of the car and manage to hold on, wind whipping around us, truly flying now, off into the unknown.

See how my fingers shake? I have a gambling addiction. Are you bailing yet?

Under our skinned knees, under our skid marks, we are all standing in the rain, shouting, waiting to see if we hear an echo, a reverberation from beyond. And when the noise comes back, we always hope the voice will be someone else, someone other than ourselves.

What do you do when you find your echo?

I hadn't seen her in two days. I hadn't spoken to her on the phone. No one had said her name to me. I hadn't seen her face. I was agitated, and I didn't understand why. I screamed at the top of my lungs, breath escaping me, lungs burning, throat constricting.

And Temperance Brennan was my echo.

I never called her Temperance. It was too personal, too sensual. When you say the name "Temperance," your tongue has to dance across the top of your mouth, graze your teeth. Your lips fall together, caressing, and your breath hisses out, spilling from your chest, past the inside of your mouth, through teeth, out to your lips, brushing softly, before escaping into the world. I called her "Bones" instead. But was that better, feeling my mouth form around the B and then the O, the end moaning out like a plea? At least it was shorter. At least it was under my control.

We got a case. I got the file, drove to the Jeffersonian. I didn't want to go in, didn't want to force myself to be professional. I waited by her car, checked my voicemail while I waited for her to come out. She had left me a message a week ago. I held the phone close to my ear, listening to her voice.

She walked out, asked me why I was there.

"Because I haven't seen you in two days," I answered. And then I knew it. I had lost. Game, set, match. I cursed under my breath as I conceded defeat.

I touched her cheek, and she didn't pull away. I touched her lips to mine, and I felt my heart pound, straining, trying to break out of my chest, trying to be closer to her. The kiss intensified, and I wrapped my arms around her. I felt the wind whip my hair, the steady roar of the engine beneath my hands. I tightened my grip as I tried to hold on, and began to fly into the unknown.

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